


John Irving's Guide to Redeeming Devious Seducers

by spookywriter



Series: The John Irving Diaries [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: AU where Hickey is still a dick but like... not in a murderous way, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Time, Hand Jobs, I would say someone had to do it but literally no one had to, M/M, hope you guys like secondhand embarrassment, no platypuses involved tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-07 14:58:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14673516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookywriter/pseuds/spookywriter
Summary: Who would win: a sexually repressed watercolors instructor, or one (1) devious seducer?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ffs I wasn't supposed to write this at all, much less almost 3k of it with 2+ more chapters to go but I spent all this time on it so what the hell I'm posting it

_Everything is going to be fine_. John has quite literally prayed to God to ask that nothing go wrong—or that, at the very least, if something does, he will be able to wait until he gets back to his flat before he has a breakdown.

_Everything is going to be fine_. All his flatmates have agreed to go. Graham, who couldn’t draw if his life depended on it but throws himself into his scribblings regardless; Edward, who agrees to it with the same blunted enthusiasm as he does everything else; George, who prattles on a bit about color theory and Edward Hopper, which John decides to take as an affirmative.

_Everything is going to be fine_. Twelve people have scrawled their names on the sign-up sheet pinned on the tackboard in the church lobby. He has run the numbers. If half of them show up, that will be six, plus his three roommates. Nine is reasonable. If fewer than that come, he will be disappointed, but then it will be a more intimate class—that is how he will spin it that night when he lies in bed and thinks about everything that has gone wrong so far in his thirty-two wretched years of life. If nobody comes, then he isn’t sure what he’s going to do. Do some climbing exercises, maybe, and hope that it will lift his spirits. Cry, more likely.

_Everything is going to be fine._ He’s most concerned about the four boys he’s managed to recruit from the youth choir he conducts. It was easy enough to bully them into it—the fact that he knows their mothers personally gives him some leverage—but if one of them manages to overcome their fear the wrath of God (and of John Irving) and decide not to come, John knows for a fact that the other three will follow. There’s some hope for David Young, who has never missed a rehearsal and is frankly terrified of John, but Robert Golding is their ringleader, and if he doesn’t want to go, the rest will almost certainly follow, no matter how grudgingly.

_Everything is going to be fine_ . The day arrives, and John Irving knows that everything is _not_ going to be fine the moment he sees the man with the red hair and the devious eyes. He sits in the back row, leans back in his chair, and rests his feet on the easel, smiling to himself as he surveys the room. When his eyes fall on John, and his smile widens even further. _Get thee behind me, Satan,_ John thinks as he crosses the room.

“Your name, please?” he asks.

“Cornelius Hickey.” The man grins. He does not remove his feet from the easel.

A kernel of hope blooms in him when he hears the unfamiliar name. “I don’t see your name on the sign-up sheet, Mr. Hickey. Are you sure you’re in the right place?”

“Really? What is this class, again?”

There’s a faint lilt in his voice—some faintly song-like quality—that makes everything he says sound like mockery. John draws himself up, determined not to be cowed by this... this _invader_.

“ _Watercolorpainting_ ,” he says running the words together as quickly as he can so he can move on to the next point of business—removing this man from his little artistic sanctuary. “What class were you looking for, Mr. Hickey? I’m sure I can point you in the right direction.”

Hickey’s eyebrows raised in amusement and his eyes—John hopes to God he is only imagining it—skim up and down John’s body before he speaks again. “Watercolor painting, did you say? I wouldn’t mind staying, if _you_ don’t mind, sir.” He meets John’s gaze confidentially, leaning forward as he intones, “They say that through art, we may grow closer to God.”

His voice is appropriately pious when he says this, but John does not trust it for a minute. He tries to summon some sort of excuse, any sort of excuse, but can think of none, so he nods wordlessly and moves on to the other students:

Tom Hartnell, and his brother, John. Fine young men, the both of them. Well-behaved. He involuntarily nods in approval. David Young has arrived, and is looking around with wild eyes for any sign of his friends. He seems to find none and begins frantically typing out a series of texts. Graham arrives with excuses from Edward and George, which is disappointing but unsurprising. He is ecstatic to see Sir John, perhaps the most eminent member of their church, bringing his wife and niece with him, as well as Francis Crozier, who is perhaps a family friend or coworker—John has never seen him at church, so knows little about him—and who scowls at everything but Sophia Cracroft. The last to arrive is Dr. Goodsir, his spectacles slipping low on his nose as apologies slip from his mouth. The class is meant to have begun five minutes ago, so, assuming this will be all, John summons up his courage and strides to the front of the room.

“Hello,” he says. “Most of your know me, but in case you don’t my name is John Irving. I’ve been an art instructor for ten years now, an a child of God for thirty-two.” He tries for a smile, but it turns to a wince when he glances at Cornelius Hickey, whose eyes glimmer with amusement. John looks away. “I’ve always seen art as a way to grow closer to God. In focusing our energies upon sketching the petals of a daisy, for instance, we distance ourselves from the sinful temptations of the Earth. And in glorifying God’s creations, we glorify God. This is why this class is called ‘Watercolor Painting With Christ.’ Although we may not be devoted our work directly to Christ, per se, he is certainly among us in all of our artistic pursuits.”

Some of the members are beginning to grow cloudy-eyed, so John quickly clears his throat and switches subjects. “We will begin by painting something that inspires us. What makes you feel wonder? What makes you feel awe? The sea? London at night?”

He feels immeasurable relief when his students set to work, leaving him to wander the room and offer guidance where he can. Sir John attempts a portrait of his wife, which borders on idolatry given the context, but he’s far too meek to say anything. Dr. Goodsir draws something highly technical—when he inquires, Goodsir tells him the creature’s Latin name, which is not particularly helpful, but he thinks it is some type of mollusc. And Mr. Hickey draws… something that makes John’s face heat with indignant horror.

“What is that, Mr. Hickey?” John asks, bristling.

“Oh, this?” He’s smiling, of course. “A tower of some sort.”

“I see.”

The shape is distinctly phallic, but John is hardly prepared to point that out. For a few minutes he can do nothing but tremble with barely suppressed rage (the gall to paint something so profane, and in a church!) but he is helpless to address the issue without embarrassing himself. So he simply nods, mumbles “carry on,” and moves on to Francis Crozier, who looks prepared to rip his easel in half. As John is helping Francis mix colors for his seascape, he hears something that makes him jolt to attention.

“Jesus Christ,” someone mutters.

_Hickey_. He whips around, eyes blazing, an avenging angel in an ill-fitting cardigan.

“Is that blasphemy I hear?” he hisses. “May I remind you that this is a church, Mr. Hickey, and we will kindly refrain from using the Lord’s name in vain.”

Hickey picks up his fallen paintbrush, which has left a splatter of paint on the linoleum, and glances up at John. “My bad.”

There’s nothing to say to that either—John is immediately aware that he has overreacted, and that everyone is staring at him. Even Sir John is frowning at him, which, alone, and under any circumstances,  would be enough to make him burn with shame. So he clears his throat and nods, to which Hickey only grins.

John is growing to hate the sight of his smile, the insolence lurking in it, the way it makes his eyes scrunch up—he might say it makes him look kind, if not for the fact that instinct and observation tell him that such deep eyes could be hiding nothing less than the fiery temptations of the Devil himself.

This is what John tells himself as he feels Hickey suddenly flush against him, fingertips grazing his bare collarbone. Before he can make sense of what is happening, he scuttles back, nearly knocking over the easel (and Hickey’s perverse creation) in the process. His heart pounds.

“Excuse me,” Hickey is saying, “I’m just going to sharpen my pencil.”

John blinks, aware of the heat in his cheeks. “Of course.”

After the first exercise, they move on to still life. John has gone to great pains to arrange a variety of vegetables in a bowl. He takes a few moments to explain the principles of shape and form and color—probably, it’s incoherent, he can barely hear himself speaking above the pounding of his head, and John is positive he is going to die of a stroke right here and now—before muttering his excuses and rushing out into the hallway.

In the men’s room, he splashes water on his face and looks himself firmly in the eyes. God, he decides, is testing him. He has found John lacking in patience, and is giving him the chance to overcome Hickey’s insidious designs and prove his worthiness—or something like that. John licks his lips. His entire mouth feels dry as dirt, and he cannot imagine why. This is far from the first heckler he has encountered, and he has never reacted this way before. Why, only last month, some blasphemer had begun speaking to him of ghosts, and surely that was almost as bad as Hickey’s transgressions.

If this isn’t frustration, then, in the name of God, what is it? The last time he had felt like this was when he saw James Fitzjames in full drag at the community Halloween party, which was a violation of God’s teachings and therefore deeply distressing… and even if it had been, well… something _else_ , he had been dressed as a _woman_ , so it wasn’t as if there was anything unnatural about it, was there...?

The door opens, interrupting John from his flurried thoughts. He makes a feeble attempt to compose himself, but then he sees that it is none other than Cornelius Hickey, and he realizes that all hope truly is lost.

“Yes?” he asks, crossly.

There is water dripping down his face and into his eyes, and he attempts to wipe it away with his sleeve. He almost gouges his eye out with a finger in his haste; his hands are shaking.

“I was wondering if you were alright. You’ve been gone for, ah, ten minutes, and I thought someone should come looking for you.”

“Have I been that long? I was—” he is looking at the leaking faucet, at the grimy floor, at the white knuckles of his fingers, gripping the edge of the sink. “I was—”

“Are you not feeling well?”

“Yes!” says John, almost exuberant.

“Well, then,” says Hickey, his voice smooth, “someone ought to take you to hospital.”

That is not at all what John wants. “That won’t be necessary.”

He feels Hickey’s hand on his shoulder and feels himself freeze down to the minutest of his muscles. “Please, John. You shouldn’t be driving in your condition, should you?”

“Don’t touch me,” John snaps. “You— you devious seducer.”

“Devious seducer?”

The shock in Hickey’s voice is so profound that John is forced to look up to meet his eyes in the mirror. John is at once sure that he has made a terrible mistake, one that will keep him tossing and turning in bed for weeks no matter how much he prays, no matter how many prescription sleep aids he takes. But no— _the greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist_ , he reminds himself.

“You—you—” John sputters. “I know your type, Mr. Hickey. It is because of sinners like you that I teach this class. But some people are too far gone to be reformed.”

Hickey takes a step back, cocking his head. “My… type? I think there’s been a misunderstanding, Mr. Irving. I meant only to show the compassion of Christ toward another child of God.” His brow scrunches, his eyes hurt. “What did you think I was trying to do?”

“Oh.” John mouths it more than says the word. He is overcome with relief, but utter humiliation soon takes its place. “N—nothing. I apologize, Mr. Hickey. Should we go back to class?”

“I thought you weren’t feeling well?”

“Oh, no, I’m feeling much better.”

Hickey raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t protest. John feels hopeful that this man, who he misjudged so terribly, will, in the spirit of Christian compassion, allow him to recover from this _faux pas._ (As if, he thinks, accusing a man of being a irredeemable sinner in a public bathroom can be considered a mere _faux pas_ and not an outright travesty.)

That catastrophe aside, the rest of the class goes well. Everybody is polite enough to ignore his not-so-brief disappearance, and now that Hickey’s intentions have been cleared up, he no longer fears meeting his eyes, and he doesn’t look away when he smiles. It _is_ peculiar the way Hickey rests his hand on John’s thigh when John pulls up a chair to help him refine the shading on his aubergine, but there’s no reason to see anything unrighteous in it. At the very least, he certainly knows better than to say anything about it.

At the end of class, he is surprised to see that Hickey pulls him aside.

“I wanted to thank you for this class, Mr. Irving. I feel that I’ve learned a lot from it— about painting, and God, and some, ah, other things. I was wondering, do you give private lessons? I’ve always felt that I do better with one-on-one instruction.”

John paused, wetting his lips. He had been hoping never to see Hickey again after their misunderstanding, and assumed the other man would feel the same. But he does need the money, and clearly Hickey doesn’t mind. He can’t afford to turn this chance down for such trivial reasons.

“Of course,” he says after a period of contemplation long enough to be uncomfortable. “What time would you be available?”

“Oh, eight o'clock?”

“In the morning?”

“In the evening. Is that too late?”

“No, no, that should be fine.” He feels around in his satchel and frowns. “I’ve forgotten my business cards. Do you have a marker?”

“Hold on,” says Hickey, catching John by the wrist. He whips out a marker and begins writing on John’s hand before John can think how to react.

“Is that your _number_ , Mr. Hickey?” he stammers, some reflex making him recoil at the sight before he can think better of it.

“How else are you supposed to contact me?” Hickey asks. A smile pulls at the corner of his lips, and John feels foolish.

“Of course.”

There’s an awkward moment where they both look at each other without saying anything, and then John mutters a few excuses and he is walking through the halls to the parking lot, where he is beyond thankful to collapse into the front seat of his car.

That night he texts Hickey, feeling oddly nervous, with some details about time and place. He decides to hold the lessons in the flat, since it’s where his cramped studio is, and he feels that it would be rude to invite himself to Hickey’s house, and uncomfortable to meet somewhere in public. He sits by his phone, jumping at every notification, until, at last, Hickey texts him back.

 

Cornelius Hickey: Sounds good ;)

 

John stares at the winking face for a full minute, trying to decipher the meaning and motive behind it. Did he say something that could have been interpreted as a joke? Should he ask for clarification? No, better not to say anything.

“What does a winking face mean?” John asks when George passes by.

“Context, please. Are you, say, messaging someone on Christian Mingle?”

“Absolutely not. Why—why would you think that?”

“I assume someone’s flirting with you.”

“It’s a client. A _male_ client.”

George shrugs, infuriatingly. “And? Welcome to the year 2018. Just don’t encourage him, for the love of God.”

John shakes his head firmly. He hasn’t told his flatmates about the incident today, and most likely never will. “There’s no reason to think _that_. Probably he mistyped.”

“Yes, John, maybe that’s it.” He doesn’t see George roll his eyes, per se, but he feels it.

John just sighs.

That night, some impulse drives him to the kitchen, where, buzzing with anxiety, he scrubs the ink from his hand until the skin is raw. But, like the mark of Cain, no amount of soap and water can wash Hickey’s number off. Odd, he thinks, but no more odd than standing in the dark well after midnight vainly trying to wash the phone number of a friendly acquaintance from his hand. He really shouldn’t think so much about it. _Everything is going to be fine._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hickey and Irving have their ~private lesson~ (part 1)

_ Everything is going to be fine _ . 

John does not realize that his flat is in a state of absolute pandemonium until approximately two hours before Cornelius Hickey is supposed to arrive, and so he spends that time in a frenzy, vacuuming crumbs from the couches and washing a mountain of dirty dishes. One would think that with four people living in the same flat, someone would think to pick up the dirty socks that had been lying on the sitting room carpet for nearly a week. A leaking Styrofoam cup of tea sits atop John's second-favorite Bible, leaving a ring mark on the cover. The paintings in the kitchen hand crooked on their nails. When he finally has a chance to sit down—his blood pressure must be skyrocketing— looks down at his feet only to realize that he is still wearing slippers and his flannel pajama pants. 

Back in his room, standing in front of a mirror, he sees that he is frantic-eyed and unkempt. Rightfully so, he thinks, considering he lives with three Judases who can't be bothered to consult the chore wheel he so thoughtfully made last year. What does one wear for a private art lesson, anyways? He doesn’t want to be too formal, but he can’t afford to be overly casual, either. It’s important to set the proper tone, to establish the proper boundaries. Jeans or khakis? Button-up or jumper? Should he shave? Should he wear cologne? And should he use the fancy brand his mother buys him every year for Christmas that he has never worn, or should he steal— _ borrow _ , that is ( thou shalt not steal ) Graham’s bottle of Axe from his room? Does anyone actually like the smell of Axe cologne? 

Graham, passing by, catches him staring in the mirror, and waggles his eyebrows. “Do you have a date tonight you didn’t tell us about?”

“Far from it. I have a private lesson—I told you this last week.”

“Right, of course,” Graham says, unconvincingly. “Do I know them?”

“Cornelius Hickey.” John tugs at the collar of his shirt, distracted. “Does this look too formal? Should I wear a different shirt?” 

“Roll up the sleeves,” Graham suggests. “Why don’t you unbutton the first button or two? You look like you’re about to choke.”

John looks Graham straight in the eyes, pale with horror. “What do you take me for, the Whore of Babylon?” 

“John’s right,” says George from the next room over, who has apparently been listening the whole time. “As I once heard his pastor say,  _ modest is hottest _ .”

Before John can think how to respond to that statement, other than with wordless indignation, Edward materializes and tugs Graham by the sleeve, whispering something in his ear that John can’t make sense of. Graham responds by nodding exaggeratedly and promptly bowing out. “Right on. Have a good lesson.”

John doesn’t know what to make of that exchange, but he glances at his phone and sees that the time is five minutes to eight, and he forgets about it entirely in his rush to make himself and his studio presentable. He moves a vase of flowers from the living room— maybe they will paint it later—and places it atop of a stack of sketchbooks on the rolling table that doubles as a desk, attempting to distract from the clutter. Piles of loose papers, paintings spread out to dry, old coffee cans overflowing with pencils and paintbrushes. As a final precaution, he retrieves the large wooden cross that hangs over his over bed and hangs it on a free peg on the wall. He is not sure why he feels that it is necessary, but it comforts him nonetheless to have a tangible reminder that God is with him, here and everywhere. 

Satisfied, he steps back to admire his work. He is fond of his little studio with its many windows and colorful paintings adorning the walls. Although, admittedly, it has the dimensions of a prison cell. He and Mr. Hickey may find themselves a little short on elbow room, but that can’t possibly do them any harm. 

He jumps at the sound of a knocking on the door, and hurries to answer the door. Edward, Graham, and George are nowhere to be seen, but it’s probably for the best, considering their strange behavior these past few days, particularly where Hickey is concerned. He doesn't pretend to understand, and is sure he has no desire to. 

John takes a deep breath, smooths the front of his shirt, and opens the door. 

Immediately, he feels overdressed in his khakis. John looks like a middle-aged secondary school maths teacher, whereas Hickey wears a t-shirt and jeans, hair scruffy beneath his beanie. (John cannot stop staring at his arms, which are covered in tattoos. His face heats—with indignance, of course; he has always believed that tattooing one’s body is akin to defacing one’s temple.)

He recovers himself, shaking his head to clear his muddled thoughts. “Come in, welcome,” he says, beckoning Hickey in.

“I truly appreciate you taking the time to arrange this lesson,” says Hickey as he enters. “Your generosity blows me away, John—I really mean that.” 

“Of course,” says John, not entirely sure how to respond. 

Hickey surveys the apartment, eyes keen, then stops abruptly, reaching for his bag. “I almost forgot. I’ve got something for you—hold on.” 

He isn’t sure what he expects. Not payment, because Hickey has paid in advance. A business card? Surely Hickey hasn’t gone so far as to buy him a gift?

To John’s horror, he pulls out the painting of the misshapen tower, now with the addition of two unfortunately placed sand dunes—signed and framed. 

“There,” Hickey says, presenting it with a flourish. “I added a few finishing touches. I thought you’d like to have it, since you were the one who stimulated my creative process. You could hang it up in your studio, if you like.”

John looks at the painting, and then at Hickey’s face, and sees that he has no choice but to accept it. “Thank you, Cornelius, that’s, erm, that’s very generous.”

“I’m only showing as much generosity to you as you’ve shown to me.”

Finally, John forces himself to grab hold of the painting, privately vowing to burn it as soon as Hickey leaves. He’ll come up with some excuse later if Hickey asks, but he refuses to have this  _ thing  _ hanging in his flat. 

When they make their way back to the studio, John hangs it next to the cross, hoping somehow that the two will cancel each other out. Hickey looks at it, hands on his hips, smile satisfied. John notices that his eyes are blue, in the softer light of the studio, and immediately looks away. 

John clears his throat. “Shall we get started?” 

He has put a significant amount of thought into this lesson. From what he an tell, Hickey has raw talent, but his paintings lack artistic refinement. Each of the pieces Hickey produced during the workshop last week—a carrot, a lighthouse, a volcano spewing magma—showed a characteristic use of distortion and abstract shape, with an eye for detail. Unfortunately, all of them showed little resemblance to their intended subject. This is something John hopes to correct over the next few lessons—there is plenty to be said for developing a personal style, but it is essential, in his mind, to first master realism.

Once he and Hickey are seated, he spreads out an array of photographs he has selected—noting the similarities among Hickey’s paintings, he has taken care to ensure that none of the subjects are remotely cylindrical; it is important for his student to break out of his comfort zone—and asks Hickey to select one that he would like to sketch.    

Hickey looks through the pictures, studying them one at a time with an earnest expression that gives John hope for his improvement. 

The lesson goes surprisingly well, at least at first. With John’s guidance, Hickey produces a decent rendering of a seaside cove. He is surprisingly quiet. At first John assumes that he is simply focused on his work, but he soon experiences a rude awakening:

As John is setting out the watercolors and brushes, preparing to adding color to the sketch, Hickey shifts in his seat, frowning down at the tabletop. 

“Is something wrong?” John asks, alarmed. 

Hickey is silent for a few moments, maybe contemplating, while John watches helplessly. “I’m not sure how to say this, but there’s something I’ve been wanting to, ah, get off my chest. I thought you might be someone I could speak to.”

“Of course.” He’s glad that Hickey sees him as a potential confidant—maybe even as a friend. He returns to his seat on the other side of the table from Hickey, leaving the paints for now. “What is it?”

“You see..” he begins. He shakes his head, maybe embarrassed, half-smiling to himself. John leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, trying to indicate that he can be trusted. “I’ve been having impure thoughts. About a specific person. And of course I know better than to act of them, but that doesn’t stop them from thinking them. All day.” He meets John’s eyes, now, the initial shame of the confession having passed. “All night.”

“I see,” says John. This is not what he was expecting—in fact, it is not something he is entirely sure he feels comfortable addressing—but he feels a deep sting of pity for Cornelius Hickey, tormented by his inner demons. He folds his hands together, trying to think. “The best remedy for impure thoughts is to replace them with thoughts of God. Through singing Christian songs, or attending church. Creating art. Spending time with our Christian brothers and sisters.” He pauses. “Is that why you chose to attend my watercolor class, Mr. Hickey? To try to chase away for impure thoughts?”

Hickey’s smile is wry. “Not exactly, no. As a matter of fact, that’s when the thoughts started.”

John blinks, and then suddenly he realizes exactly what Hickey is saying. “Oh—of course it’s not my place to ask who the… subject of these thoughts it, but I suppose there’s really only one option…”

“Who would that be?”

“Sophia Cracroft, of course. The only other woman there was Lady Franklin, and although she’s a very charming woman, she is rather—she is a lady of a certain age. But,” he continues, seeing the confusion creeping into Hickey’s eyes, “if she is in fact the woman you have been thinking about, there’s nothing—that is—God understands that as well.” 

He clears his throat, waiting, face burning. 

The bewilderment on Hickey’s face has become one of amusement. He looks up at John from beneath his eyelashes, smile a suggestion of white in the dimly lit room. “John,” he says. “It’s not Miss Cracroft I’ve been thinking about. Or Lady Franklin.”

“I—oh.” John’s eyes dart throughout the room, hoping that the fire alarm will suddenly go off, or the pipes will burst, or… anything to remove him from this situation. He would send up a prayer for divine intervention if he was not so entrenched in sin at the moment that he wasn’t sure it would make it up to Heaven. In short, he is rendered speechless. So, feebly, awkwardly, he jabs at his own chest with his forefinger, resorting to a sort of crude sign language. He tilts his head, repeating the sign. “Me?”

The corner of Hickey's mouth quirks upward. “I understand this must be uncomfortable for you.”

Attempting to be subtle, he scoots his stool backwards, now deeply uncomfortable with his proximity to Cornelius. “No, no, it’s—it’s fine I’m… flattered. But of course—”

“Of course.” Hickey nods. “That’s why I thought I could speak to you. I know I can trust you to be discreet while still helping me change my sinful ways.”

John feels a rush of relief, and lets out the breath he has been holding. “I’m glad you see this the way I do. Your crisis is an opportunity to repair yourself, Mr. Hickey. And this is as good a time and place as any other to begin. I—shall I lead us in prayer?” 

When Hickey nods, John bows his head and closes his eyes. He wets his lips, trying to summon the familiar words despite his racing thoughts. “ _Our Father who is in heaven, hallowed be Your name_ ,” he begins. He thinks of the wooden cross on the wall and takes courage in the knowledge that God will protect him from Cornelius’s evil, lusting ways. “ _Your kingdom come. Your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors. And—_ ” Here he pauses, struck by the relevance of the coming words, and hopes Cornelius is too— “ _do not lead us into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For yours is the kingdom and the power, and the glory, forever. Amen.”_

“Amen,” echoes Cornelius.

Awkward silence descends between the two of them. John is not sure what to do next. He can’t simply return to their lesson—they are beyond that now. Should they pray again? Is there something he should say? The lesson has really only just begun; it is only 8:30. How can he possibly fill the next half hour? 

He finds himself rambling to fill the silence.  “It's perfectly normal to experience unnatural urges,” he begins saying, perhaps hoping to reassure Cornelius, who still looks despondent. “I myself have grappled with them." He really does not know why he is saying this. "Sometimes many times in one day.” 

“Is that so?” says Hickey. John does not like the look in his eyes. He looks away 

“But what matters, Mr. Hickey," he says, "is not what we are tempted to do, but whether or not we act on these temptations. God did not punish Eve because she wanted to eat the apple, but because she took a bite.”

“What if you have already acted on these unnatural urges? If it too late?”

“It is never too late for God’s mercy." 

“What if I died in, let's say, twenty minutes. If I truly renounced all my…” Hickey drums his fingers on the table, cocking his head. “All my sinful ways, would I still go to heaven, even if I’ve been a devious seducer up until then?” 

John cringes at hearing the phrase  _ devious seducer _ again, but he nods. Though he can’t imagine where Hickey is going with this. “If your repentance is sincere, then yes. I don't see why not.”

Hickey leans in closer, thoughtful. “So really if you think about it, you could act on your unnatural urges every day of your life, and as long as you repented before you died, there wouldn't be any consequences.”

_Oh_. John licks his lips, agitated. He feels like he's suffocating in the small room, in this bloody shirt, not that he would dare to unbutton the top button now, of all times. 

He must do something about this before Hickey gets the wrong idea entirely. It is his duty as a Christian to guide this man down the proper path, and he refuses to let him fall victim to temptation. And he must be wary of temptation himself. In helping his fellow man he must not be dragged down to his level. 

“I suppose, but that really isn't the point—" he begins, red-faced and faltering. "I can't say I'm an expert on theology—but I really don't believe—" His eyes go wide. "Mr. Hickey, what in God’s name are you doing?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cuts to commercial break*
> 
> Lots of thanks to everyone who's left comments and kudos, you guys are killing me in the best way possible


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's flatmates gossip; dirty talk was emphatically not covered in Sunday school; John finally has some fun (and a crisis, but what's new?)

It’s about a quarter to nine, and George, Edward, and Graham are crowded around a wooden table. They’re at The Wardroom, a nautical-themed pub that takes advantage of the fact that it is technically seaside, not that you can actually see the ocean from the location. They’ve begrudgingly frequented it for years, and now it’s only second nature to walk the two blocks down from the flats when it becomes apparent that they most certainly do  _ not  _ want on the other side of a thin wall from John Irving and Cornelius Hickey. 

Over the past week, through a system of raised eyebrows and pointed looks, they have come to understand that they all agree on one matter: whatever happens at John’s private watercolors lesson, it will involve very little painting. 

“We ought to buy him a cake,” Graham comments as he takes another sip of his beer. “A drink, at least. It’s a big day.”

Edward frowns, fingers curling anxiously around his own drink. “He’d be mortified. It’s none of our business, anyways.”

“Do you really think he’d believe that we all happened to leave the flat the moment his lesson began, just by chance? He must know that we know.”

“Don’t be overly generous,” says George. He daintily cuts his chips into pieces, wielding a knife and fork, and dips them individually into ketchup while Edward looks on, mouth drawn downward in distaste. “This is John we’re talking about.”

“Fair point,” says Graham.

Presently, they catch sight of James Fitzjames and Francis Crozier entering the pub. Graham hails them, and James grins, dragging a reluctant Francis along by the sleeve. 

The first thing James asks when he arrives at the table is, “What’s happened to John?”

“Incidentally,” says George. “That's a hotly contested issue.”

James raises his eyebrows and promptly pulls up a chair. Francis, who has no taste for gossip, groans, sensing what is to come. 

“Oh, God. I'm going to go get a drink.”

The four men look at him pointedly.

“Of water,” he clarifies. 

As soon as Francis is out of earshot, James plants his elbows on the table, leaning forward with a conspiratorial air. “Let’s hear it,” he says. 

“Well,” begins Graham, “To make a long story short, John is in the middle of a  _ private lesson  _ with a certain Cornelius Hickey, and we’ve been placing bets on what’s going on. Edward thinks he’s being shagged within an inch of his life—” 

“That is  _ not  _ what I said,” says Edward.

“It’s what you meant. Anyways, George doesn’t think he has the guts to go through with it, and that he’s probably crying under his covers hugging his Bible right now. I’m siding with Edward, for what it counts.”

“Good for him,” says James. “He deserves to have some fun. The last time I saw him happy was when he got drunk on trivia night and was singing—what was it?—some sort of hymn.” He wrinkles his nose. “While standing on one of the tables.”

“Now imagine living with him,” says Graham. “He’s a great guy, but—”

“It’s like how Francis was before we started dating,” James says, nodding. “Did I ever tell you that he—” 

Francis, who had returned just seconds ago with a glass of water in hand, freezes. “I’m more than happy to leave you here, James.” 

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

James makes a face. “No, you would,” he agrees. “Anyways—”

Before James can speak, he is interrupted by the approach of Sir John, who has just entered, tailed by Sophia Cracroft, who has an apologetic look on her face. 

“What a nice surprise,” Sir John says, taking a seat with them without asking for permission. “What have you lads been talking about?”

The only response is a chorus of shrugs, grunts, and barely-audible responses.

“We were actually just going,” says Graham, standing up abruptly. 

“Good to see you around,” mumbles Edward as he drags George up from his seat and gestures to one of the waitresses. 

 

~~~

 

Hickey’s hand is resting on his thigh, too high to be merely friendly. (John briefly considers and then rejects the possibility that it is an expression of friendship; not even he is capable of that extent of denial.) His fingers press into the flesh of John’s leg and, as if struck by electricity, John stands up, nearly upsetting the table. Paintbrushes clatter to the floor.

“What are you doing, Mr. Hickey?” he hisses. 

“Now that we’ve agreed that God doesn’t mind, it’s really up to you, Mr. Irving” Hickey says, his voice light.

There is a devilish smile on his lips—truly, devilish, and John can't fathom how he allowed himself to be played like this, made a complete and utter fool. He is waiting for John to move, like a hunter in wait. And what is far more disturbing yet is that he (God help him) does not entirely mind the perverse attention. 

“God sees you,” John says. “God sees  _ us _ .”

Hickey tilts his head, eyes wide in a parody of ignorance. “Are you saying you're into voyeurism, John?”

John comes rather close to choking on his own tongue as he attempts to express his rage. “I don't know what you think I am,” he manages to say at last. His palms are damp as they clutch at the fabric of his trousers. “I don't know why you came here. I thought that you were sincere when you said—” He shakes his head. “Go home, Mr. Hickey.”

He watches as Hickey stands, gaze drifting briefly down to his unfinished painting, and collects himself. John watches for some sign of hurt or disappointment—maybe he wants to see it—but his face is inscrutable. “Are you sure?” he says. 

John nods silently. He doesn't trust himself to speak. 

He should have known better than to let this happen, any of it. Hickey may be weak, but he is no better. And if he hadn’t had this small amount of strength, he might have fallen victim to a far greater sin than temptation. Exhausted, he slumps across the wall and closes his eyes, wishing his tilted world to fall back in place. 

Hickey makes it only as far as the door.

“Wait—!” The word slips out before John can think better of it, and, far worse, he instinctively catches Hickey by the wrist. Hickey looks down at his hand, something like fascination painting his features. 

He should let go. John doesn’t entirely understand why he  _ doesn’t _ let go. Jesus glares down at him from the wooden cross. 

“I'll walk you to the door,” John says meekly.

And John swears to God—and that is not something he says lightly—he intends to do that, and nothing more. But he does not succeed. 

There has been something taking root in him, some deep want, that has laid dormant for years. And Hickey has awoken it. He had thought that it could be crushed down with meditation and prayer—he thinks of the late nights he has spent painting fields and flowers to escape visiting the places his thoughts might bring him in sleep. And he knows better than to do this. God does not place temptation in our path for it to be easily overcome. But, really, it is only expected that, from time to time, we trip and fall…

“I could tell you some of my thoughts, and maybe we could talk through them together,” Hickey says, barely audible over the pounding in John’s head. 

“That's—that's not necessary,” John says. The very thought makes his ears burn, and he knows that if Hickey starts speaking, he won’t be able to resist him. 

Unfortunately, the only way his feverish mind can think to silence him is by covering Hickey's lips with his own.

Hickey lets out a short, startled breath, but before John can back away in horror he’s returning the kiss, grabbing John by the collar and pulling him down to his height. Someone—dear God, it's  _ John _ —lets out a soft moan as the kiss deepens, their teeth colliding, Hickey’s tongue pressing warm and damp against his own.

John is absolutely and utterly certain that he is going to Hell. He pulls away, panting, feeling Hickey's warm breath against his lips. Still far too close. 

“You seduced me,” he says. He thinks he means to say it as an accusation, but something is lost in translation. 

“And?” 

Hickey’s lips brush against his jaw, down his neck, and then he bites down, hard, and sucks. John squirms, trying to stifle whatever unholy sound his body wants him to make.

“I—my bedroom is down the hall.”

A few minutes later, Hickey is straddling him as he sits on the edge of his bed. John is very much aware of the fact that he is aroused, and Hickey knows too, judging by the way he grinds his pelvis into John’s lap as he settles himself between John’s legs. 

He should be utterly repulsed by this, not just morally but physically. He wills himself to be, but he is not. The fact is that he has never been touched like this—the closest he had come to having intercourse was with a fellow counselor from Vacation Bible School when he was sixteen, who he had left alone by the picnic tables, gripped by the throes of a spiritual crisis. Maybe it is only desperation. Maybe once the deed is done, he will be purged of his sins, left clean and born anew. 

Hickey’s hand presses against his chest, and John is breathless as it moves slowly his stomach downwards until it is resting—he jerks away and looks hesitantly down.

“How do you want me? Like this? Or—”

“This is fine,” breathes John before Hickey can suggest anything more debauched.  

He feels as if he is being immolated—surely a premonition—as heat creeps throughout him. Hickey is mercilessly slow as he unbuttons John’s khakis (the fact that he is wearing khakis makes the situation all the more painfully absurd), and John is humiliated to find himself reaching for the zipper himself, impatient. Hickey swats his hands away.

“Just do it,” snaps John.

“Do what?”

John cannot bring himself to describe or name the act. “Deflower me,” he says, which is, in retrospect, the most devastatingly embarrassing thing he has said in his life. He will think about those two words nightly for months to come, almost as long as he will be haunted by dreams of what comes next. 

Hickey’s smile reveals dimples, and John wants to trace them with his fingertip. “ _ Deflower me, Cornelius _ ,” says Hickeys, mimicking his voice with startling accuracy.

“How dare you.”

“Ravish me?”

“Don't—”

“Don't ravish you?”

Hickey pulls his hand away. 

“That's not what I—” He grits his teeth, and sighs, defeated. “Defile me, Cornelius.”

“If you say so, Mr. Irving.” 

Thankfully, that is what it takes to buy his silence. John all but trembles in anticipation as Hickey’s slender fingers wrap around him. He bucks his hips, startled by the sudden stimulation. But they soon fall into a rhythm, John biting his lip and breathing through his nose. Every gasp or moan, he tells himself, is a concession to sin that he will not make. Eventually, he tucks his chin into the crook of Hickey’s neck and rests it there, taking in the scent of ivory soap and cigarette smoke, keeping a white-knuckled grip on the back of his shirt. 

When it is done, Hickey wipes his hand on the bedspread, which John bought at a benefit sale for his church. It's patterned with lambs and crosses and doves bearing olive branches. The irony is devastating. 

He thinks he is supposed to reciprocate, but he doesn't think he has it in him. All he can do is sit there, uncomfortably aware, now, of Hickey’s weight on him, and trace his tattoos with a forefinger. Hickey’s hand cups his jaw, thumb grazing along his lip, looking at him, eyes half-lidded, with something that isn't quite affection, but at least doesn't seem to be disgust. 

As John is trying to think of something to say—would Hickey like a moist towelette?—he hears a commotion outside the flat.

“Here we are,” says Graham loudly. “Back at the flat.”

Then, “oh, no. I've dropped my keys. Edward, would you pick them up for me?”

“Of course, Graham.” 

“Thank you, Edward. I wonder how John’s art lesson is going!”

Hickey swears, shifting off of John and combing his hands through his hair. John looks desperately for a different pair of khakis, heart racing. 

By the time John and Hickey emerge from his room, Graham and Edward have apparently settled the key situation. A hushed discussion comes from the sitting room, and John can only pray that his face isn't as red as it feels as they enter.

“Apparently our lesson ran over,” says John, looking at the clock and feigning surprise. 

Graham elbows George in the side, smirking, and John can't imagine why.

“When will I see you again?” Hickey asks. “For another lesson, I mean.”

“Is—does tomorrow night work?” John is stupefied by his own boldness. He means to say next week. And what he really ought to say is never, or, if not never, this Sunday in church.

Hickey nods, and they shake hands, which is not by far and away the most awkward experience John has had in the past week, but it is among them. His flatmates looks at him blankly as Hickey walks out. 

“Did your lesson go well?” Edward asks. 

“Yes, erm, very well.”

“I see you took my advice about the buttons,” says Graham. 

John looks down and sees that his unbuttoned collar reveals a deep purple bruise on his neck, dark as sin, and is struck by the horrifying truth: they  _ know. _

“Oh, God.” He considers fleeing, or maybe booking a flight to somewhere on the other side of the Atlantic. “You don’t think it’s a—?” He attempts a laugh, shaking his head. Probably, he looks maniacal. 

“Look,” says Graham, voice soothing. “There's nothing wrong with it. We had James Instagram stalk him, and he said that if he wasn't happily married—”

“I'm not—” John can't even bring himself to say the word. “I'm not a—”

“John, for fuck’s sake, you're gay,” deadpans Edward.

“And we support you,” adds Graham.

“Jesus Christ,” says John, collapsing on the sofa next to him, head in his hands. He winces at the oath, one he hasn't said aloud since college. 

“Let it all out,” says Graham, rubbing his back. He smells heavily of alcohol. “It’s okay.” His face brightens. “We even got you a cake!”

“Graham, forget the cake,” says George. “I wish I could forget the cake, but we don't all have that luxury.”

“No, no,” says Graham. “It's in the fridge.”

John nearly has a conniption when he sees it. Written in icing, in rainbow colors, is:

 

**CONGRATS ON GETTING LAID, JOHN!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right so I have no earthly idea how to write smutty stuff but I white-knuckled my way through it for you guys and your lovely (and sometimes horny tbh, no judgement) comments. You guys inspire me to push myself in the worst possible ways so thanks for that <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Irving deals with the aftermath of being deviously seduced.

John Irving has had a frightening dream. Remnants of it cling to his waking mind as he lies in bed, squinting into the sunshine that streams through his window, head pounding. A sliver of this dream comes at him with the force of a bullet: 

_ For fuck’s sake, John, you’re gay. _

He winces, trying to clear his mind. Never mind that; it is only a dream. Today he will go to the gym and use the climbing wall for as long as it takes to forget— 

_ Defile me, Cornelius. _

—and then he will go down to the waterfront and paint a landscape. He plans to take the day to himself, away from his flatmates. Not for any particular reason. There’s nothing extraordinary about the day, it’s not as if— 

_ CONGRATS ON GETTING LAID, JOHN!  _

The truth strikes him then. John Irving has not, in fact, had a frightening dream. He has lost his virginity (he thinks?—there are no helpful charts or diagrams in the Bible on this matter, or even a glossary) to a devious seducer and blasphemer to boot, then proceeded to stay up until midnight with his flatmates eating a cake with marbled rainbow batter, getting very drunk, and perusing a series of tracts entitled “I’m Christian, Gay, and That’s Okay!” 

This explains the blinding headache, but doesn’t bring him any comfort.

He should feel dirty. He should want to devote the day to prayer and to listening to gospel until his head spins. Some part of him does want this, but there is another, new part of him that resists. Instead, he lurches to the bathroom and splashes water on his face until he feels well enough to stumble to the kitchen.

George is already there, frying bacon in a pan. “Good morning. How do you feel?”

“Not very well.”

“Well, it’s only to be expected after you were  _ defiled  _ last night.”

John thinks he’s going to be sick, and not just because he’s hungover. “What?”

George places a comforting hand on his shoulder. “John, last night I knew more about your private life last night than my own. Fortunately, I was almost as drunk as you were, so I’ve forgotten most of it.” He pauses, eyes glassy. “ _ Most _ of it.”

“I’m—I’m sorry about that,” he says, then presses his lips together. “George, since you already know, would you say that what happened counts as losing—”

“John,” interrupts George. “I am hungry and I want to eat my breakfast. Stop asking me questions you can easily Google. That said, virginity is a social construct and I can introduce you to a few dissertations on the subject.”

After he eats his breakfast and says his morning prayers, John checks his phone. He’s been avoiding it—God knows what kind of debauched messages Hickey has been sending him, but John certainly does not want to. There is probably a God-fearing means of going about having extramarital sex with a fellow man, but not where Cornelius Hickey is concerned.

There is only one message, and as far as John can tell, it’s utterly benign.

 

Hickey: figure drawing tonight?? 

 

This is followed by an emoji that he thinks is an aubergine. John responds quickly.

 

John: Technically, drawing vegetables is called still life :) 

 

Just because his relationship with Hickey has gone in an unexpected direction, it doesn’t mean that John has given up on his aspirations of cultivating Hickey’s artistic talents. He is, after all, still an artist and a teacher. In the same vein, he is hoping to convince Hickey to join him at church one day, although he suspects he will be less successful in this mission. He isn’t entirely alright with this, but is more so than he would have expected.

His phone buzzes as he receives a new message. This one is from James Fitzjames, who is only a passing acquaintance of his. He cannot imagine why he could be texting him.

 

James: Hi John!

James: Graham told me you wore khakis on your date last night, so I thought I would send you the link to a Pinterest board I made last night with some outfit ideas that do not feature khakis. Have fun tonight!

James: P.S. George told me to take inspiration from the phrase “modest is hottest.” I don’t really understand, but hopefully that means something to you :)

 

John is too humiliated by the fact that James Fitzjames, of all people, knows about his indiscretions last evening to respond. As he considers the implications, who else might know, his embarrassment quickly gives way to panic. This is somehow spiraling beyond his control. Maybe this was all a mistake. His life is a sideshow, his flatmates are relentless gossips, and, as if that was not bad enough, he is still unsure about whether or not he is going to Hell when he dies. Which might be sooner rather than later, because John is not mentally or physically fit to cope with this level of stress.

When John is stressed, he turns to either prayer or painting. Because his current crisis is spiritual, he decides that painting is the better of the two options. So he collects his supplies and his foldable easel, and he walks a few blocks down to the waterfront, choosing a bench with a nice view. He inhales the salt breeze, meditating on the endless expanse of blue, and then immediately feels his nerves fray all over again.

Because Cornelius Hickey is about ten meters away, strolling along the waterfront with his chin tucked into his collar to protect him from the sea breeze, heading towards him.

Maybe, John thinks, if he is very still and prays very hard and his easel is positioned  _ just so  _ to hide his face, Cornelius won’t see him.

Cornelius sees him.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon,” John says as he approaches. 

Cornelius shrugs, smile flickering across his face. “Maybe it’s God’s plan.”

“I don’t think that’s likely, Mr. Hickey.” He cringes at the stiff formality, but Cornelius seems to take it in stride. 

“Can I sit?” he asks, inclining his head to indicate the other side of the bench. 

John hesitates. 

“Just to talk.”

He nods, moving slightly over so Cornelius can take a seat next to him. Their thighs brush, briefly, but Cornelius inches away to give him space. 

“I think if I could live my life again, I would be a sailor,” says Cornelius, eyes closed, face raised to the breeze. He leans back on the bench, basking in the light. 

“Where would you sail?”

“Someplace warm. The Caribbean. The Sandwich Islands. Get myself a tan. More freckles, at least.”

John nods, still feeling awkward. “That sounds nice.”

Neither of them speaks for a minute or two. They must look odd to passers-by, like two strangers from opposite worlds that have no business intersecting. One of them straight-backed and stiff-faced, the other sprawled out like a cat; one dark-haired and tall, the other slight and redheaded. John is, naturally, wearing a frumpy jumper. Cornelius is, of course, wearing a leather jacket.

John breaks the silence. “I thought that if I—if I did it once, I wouldn’t want it again.”  

“Ah.” Cornelius opens his eyes and looks at him. “Did it work?”

“It—” John considers his words carefully, “—didn’t take.”

“Didn’t take?”

“Not this time. But maybe if I tried again, it might be more successful.” He swallows, his mouth dry. “You mentioned figure drawing. Or maybe you meant still life, I wasn’t—” 

It’s best, he decides, to cut himself off there.

“If you want to bring your supplies, my apartment is a block away,” says Cornelius.

 

~~~   
  


John is indisputably no longer a virgin. This is a thought that drifts through his mind as he critiques Cornelius’s sketch, and one that he will allow himself to agonize over later. He and Cornelius will simply have to get married sooner rather than later—because although he is leery of premarital sex, he is not particularly willing to give it up now. 

“You need to be conscious of your light source,” he says, sketchbook in lap, as Cornelius peers over his shoulder, chin lightly resting there. “The shading on the face is done as if the lighting comes from the upper left corner, but the leg—here—and the stomach—here—look as if they’re being illuminated from directly above.”

“Hmm.” Cornelius pouts as John erases the offending regions. 

“The likeness is good,” John adds. He tries to fight the flush in his cheeks, considering the subject. “But maybe a little, erm, generous.”

“Really? No, I don’t think so.”

John isn’t sure whether or not it is appropriate to thank him, so he says nothing. In all honesty, very little about this situation is appropriate. 

“Will you hang this in your studio too?” Cornelius asks as he makes the necessary adjustments to the shading. He holds the pencil wrong, like he’s writing rather than drawing, and John corrects his grip.  

“Absolutely not,” he says. 

“I have an idea.” There’s a sly look in his eyes that makes John’s stomach twinge with dread and guilty anticipation. “How about you paint me, and hang that in your studio? Something to inspire you.”

The part of John who has brought along his Bible on holiday for beach reading since the age of fourteen violently rejects the idea. Actually, the part of John who has read the Bible in general is wary. But the more he thinks about it, man is one of God’s creations. So the difference between painting a flower and painting a nude of the man he is fornicating with is really just a matter of semantics. 

“I suppose—I don’t really see why not,” he says. 

As he is mixing his paints and Cornelius is experimenting with poses, the doorbell rings. Cornelius glares in the general direction of the door.

“I’ll get it,” says John. "It's probably the pizza."

He dresses hurriedly, wishing they had thought to neatly fold and set aside their clothes rather than leaving them strewn on the floor. It would have made the entire process much less time-consuming, and John would not have to cope with the stressful situation of knowing that Cornelius was staring at his arse the entire time.

He makes it to the door just after the delivery person rings the doorbell a second time.

Only, John realizes, when he opens the door, it’s not the pizza. It’s a burly man with with kind brown eyes and a full beard, dressed in what John is fairly sure is the uniform of the Royal Marines. He’s holding a bouquet of flowers, and steps back in surprise when he sees John.

“I’m awfully sorry. I must have the wrong address.”

“This is—it’s Cornelius Hickey’s flat. Not mine.”

The man raises his eyebrows. “Oh. And you are…?”

“His… friend?” 

“Okay,” says the marine, forehead creased and eyes narrowed with suspicion as he takes in John’s bedraggled state. “Is he here now? Because I think he and I should talk about something. Um, if—”

Cornelius appears a moment later, tugging on his shirt and looking annoyed. 

“Solomon,” he says, cocking his head. “You didn’t tell me you were on leave.”

“I thought I would surprise you,” he says. “I think maybe I did.”

There are a few minutes of silence in which all three parties take in the situation. John is beginning to suspect that there are some aspects—specifically, some individuals—in Cornelius’s life he was not aware of, and the realization sets his stomach turning with dread. 

“Alright. Solomon, meet John Irving, my…” Cornelius presses his lips together, thinking, before his lips curl into a wry smile, “art instructor. John, meet Solomon Tozer, my boyfriend. Maybe we should all sit down have a talk.”

“Your what?” says John.

“Art instructor?” says Solomon. “Are you fucking joking?”

Cornelius clears his throat, rocking on his feet. "It's a funny story..."

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a fun ride, guys! Thanks for reading for being as invested in these crazy kids as I am. (And I'm very sorry about the twist, but it's Hickey, you guys know it wasn't going to work out.)
> 
> Now that I've gotten this out of my system, I'm going to get back to working on my camping trip AU and maybe doing a couple fun one-shots (and maybe a lil sequel to this fic?). If you have any requests feel free to hit me up in the comment section or on Tumblr @thehmsterror! :)


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